Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala (9 page)

A crescent moon was rising in the east behind him. He turned to see if it, too, was peeling away from the sky like an old sticker on a refrigerator. The humming noise rose to a sudden, piercing squeal, and then the vibration shook the ground like a distant earthquake.

“
Beth!
” he called out, watching as fragments of the moon broke off and slowly drifted down from the sky. They fluttered and hissed like falling snow as they rushed through the trees behind him. And then he saw something overhead that was impossible to believe. The peeling paint had exposed a vast complex of spinning gears and cogs with a huge network of circuits and switches that glowed as they overheated. The humming sound rose even higher until it was unbearable as more and more pieces of the night sky chipped away and fell, revealing the machinery behind the night sky.

At last, Dave realized—as impossible as it was—what was happening.

“Beth!” he yelled, as loud as he could so his wife could hear him above the steadily rising rumble. “Come out here! Quick! You’ve got to see this! The sky is falling!”

The city was on fire.

For the last six weeks, once the sun was down, Martin Gordon wouldn’t leave his house.

He didn’t dare.

He hadn’t seen any news reports since the television and radio stations had gone off the air last week. He didn’t have the Internet, and it had been even longer since he’d read a current newspaper or magazine.

But he didn’t need anyone to tell him that being out after dark was dangerous. From his second floor bedroom window, he could see marauding bands of young people, their dark silhouettes outlined like hot metal against the dancing flames of the burning city as they roved the streets.

The millennial celebrations had started in early December. At first they had been nothing more than sporadic nightly celebrations; but for the last few weeks, they had continued from dusk until dawn as throngs of people moved from city block to city block. What had started as a spontaneous celebration quickly turned into wanton destruction as people’s frustrations and insecurities took over. It wasn’t long before the burning and looting began.

Martin had quit his job last week, on Monday morning. He thought “quit” might be too strong a word. There was no superior left at the bank for him to give his notice to, so he simply stopped showing up.

He didn’t mind being out of work all that much. He’d never liked his job at the bank in the first place, and now he had plenty of time to do the things he enjoyed doing, such as working on his model railroads. Of course, with no electricity, he couldn’t run the trains. In the gathering darkness, all he could do was admire the work he’d done during daylight hours and hope that eventually, once the electricity was restored, he could run them again.

For the last several days, however, he’d spent most of the daylight hours reinforcing the barricades around his house. He’d sacrificed nearly all of the heavy oak doors from inside the house to cover the downstairs windows. He picked up some heavy-duty screws at the hardware store—literally picked them up because there was no one there to pay—and, after cutting the doors in half, screwed them—by hand because there was no electricity—into the window frames. Someone would have to be pretty damned determined to break into his house.

Getting food was becoming an increasing problem. Martin had run out of ready cash a while ago. All of the city’s banks had closed their doors by the second week of December, so his paltry savings were locked up where he couldn’t get at them.

Ultimately, it didn’t matter because all of the grocery stores within walking distance of his house—like the hardware store—had been looted, anyway. Without electricity, all of the frozen food and perishables had gone bad, but Martin had enough dried and canned food squirreled away to last a month, maybe longer if he was careful. As it was, his meals were uninspired—usually nothing more than cold beans or vegetables eaten straight from the can. All he could hope was that the situation would eventually calm down, and the police would restore law and order so everything could start getting back to normal.

Whatever “normal” was in the year 2000.

Every day, as soon as the sun started to set, Martin would make sure the front and back doors were secure, then settle down for a cold meal from a can before going upstairs, where he could keep an eye on the front yard from his bedroom window. Then, usually sometime after midnight, he’d settle down to sleep.

He’d gotten so he could sleep through just about anything, unless a roving party of thugs and partiers came too close to the house. When things started to get out of control, he would wake up and sit on the edge of his bed with a loaded shotgun cradled like a baby in his arms. The only light he used was a single candle, which he placed behind him so it would illuminate the bedroom doorway without blinding him if someone broke into the house.

So far, though, there hadn’t been any trouble; and for some reason, tonight was unusually quiet. The millennium rioting was still in full swing, but it was a couple of blocks away. When Martin looked out the upstairs window, he could see the fire-lit buildings in the distance and hear the sounds of music and riotous voices, laughing and calling out in wild abandon.

“Christ, some celebration,” he muttered.

Having lived alone for the last eight years, ever since his mother died, he had gotten into the habit of talking out loud to himself. He had never known his father who, according to his mother, had left the family when Martin was less than a year old. Like a lot of men in tough economic times, one day he went to the store for cigarettes and never came home.

There was a sharp winter chill in the air, so after listening to the distant block party for a while, Martin decided it was safe to close the window and settle down to sleep. Because there was no heat in the house—even if there had been electricity to run the furnace, there hadn’t been any oil deliveries in weeks—his mattress was stacked high with blankets and comforters. His breath made puffy white clouds in the darkness as he lay down and watched the dull orange flicker of flames against the city skyline.

He was drifting off to sleep when he was suddenly startled awake.

For a panicky instant, Martin wasn’t sure what had awakened him. The sounds of the celebrations were still far off in the distance. Concerned, he looked around the darkened bedroom, sure that he had heard something … but what?

Is someone in the house?

A slight rush of apprehension ran through him.

It was possible, he supposed, but he didn’t see how anyone could have gotten in without making enough noise to wake him up sooner?

Moving slowly so as to make as little sound as possible, Martin sat up and reached over the side of the bed to where his shotgun leaned against the wall. He felt better once it was in hand. Tossing the bedcovers aside, he swung his feet to the floor. A numbing chill ran up the back of his legs the instant his bare feet hit the icy floorboards.

Standing in a defensive crouch, he tried to stop his teeth from chattering as he waited for the sound to come again. Shivers teased like bony fingertips playing the xylophone up and down his spine. The hair at the nape of his neck prickled with anticipation until—very faintly—the sound came again.

It was the soft sound of someone knocking ... knocking on the front door.

Martin’s heart pulsed heavily in his chest as he thumbed the hammer back on the shotgun and took a few cautious steps forward. He was breathing rapidly, trailing his frosty breath like a tangled scarf over his shoulders.

Before he made it to the now door-less doorway of his bedroom, the knocking came again, louder this time. It echoed through the cold, dark house, which resonated like a huge kettledrum.

Martin was shivering terribly when he stepped out into the hallway and paused to look over the railing. His eyes took too long to adjust to the darkness as he stared at the front door, positive he could see it bulging inward with each heavy blow as the knocking sounded again.

Tightening his grip on the shotgun, Martin started down the stairs. His gaze was focused on the narrow windows on either side of the door. He wanted to catch some indication of who was out there on the doorstep, but all he could see was the deep, black stain of the night, pressing against the glass like a stray cat, wanting to be let in.

Martin took a deep breath, preparing to call out a challenge or a warning, but his voice failed him, caught like a fish hook in his throat.

He didn’t like this.

Not one bit.

But in spite of his rising tension, he kept moving forward. Every stair step creaking beneath his weight set his teeth on edge until he made it down to the foyer.

The only light in the house came from the single candle burning upstairs in his bedroom. Hardly enough light to see by. The darkness within the house pressed close, squeezing against him like soft, crushed velvet. When he realized he was holding his breath, he let it out in a long, slow whistle. His hands were shaking as he raised the shotgun and aimed it at the front door.

Even though he was expecting it and was convinced that he was ready for it, his heart skipped a beat and he jumped when the knocking came again.

One ... two ... three times, the heavy blows pounded against the door.

And then they stopped.

The sudden silence hummed in Martin’s ears as he stood in the foyer, too frightened to say or do anything.

His anticipation spiked as he waited for the sound to come again. He looked furtively from side to side as though expecting to see something creeping up behind him in the darkness even though he told himself there was nothing there. His gaze returned to the door when the unseen person on the other side began knocking again, even harder.

Is it a friend?
Martin wondered.
Has someone stopped by to check if I’m all right?

That wasn’t likely.

Martin didn’t have any friends. He kept pretty much to himself at work, having gotten used to being alone after so many years tending to his invalid mother before she finally died.

Thinking of his mother sent a tickling electric current racing up his back.

What if that’s
her
out there?

He was unable to repress the deep shudder that shook his insides. He couldn’t help but remember how, during those last, horrible years, when she was ill and bedridden, she would bang on the wall to get his attention, pulling him away from his time alone with his trains.

He tried not to think about it, but the sounds—the knocking outside now and her banging the walls—were practically identical.

No
, he told himself.
Mother is dead!

He tried not to imagine what she would look like, her wizened form hunched on the crumbling cement stairs, wrapped against the cold night in her yellowing burial shroud as she banged on the door to be let in. After eight years, her skin, gray from the embalming fluid that had replaced her blood, would be peeling off in large, flaky chunks as each knock rang through the house like a hammer on a Chinese gong.

But no … That couldn’t be her outside.

It was impossible.

He had seen her coffin lowered into the ground.

She was dead.

Even if he hadn’t smothered her with her pillow, like the detective who had come by several times had suggested, she was dead and buried. And even if he
had
done something like that, he had only done it out off mercy, to end her suffering following the paralyzing stroke.

He told himself he shouldn’t let his imagination get fired up like this. It wasn’t healthy. There was definitely someone out there, make no mistake, but it wasn’t—it
couldn’t
be his
mother!

But it was
someone
, and when whoever it was began hammering on the door again, Martin told himself that, if they didn’t stop and go away real soon, he was going to unload his shotgun on them without warning.

He didn’t care who it was.

Even if it was some little kid who’d lost a kitten and was going door to door, looking for it. Or some crazed drunk or drug addict, lost and, thinking he was home, pounding on the wrong door to be let it.

It didn’t matter.

And even if it
did
matter, Martin didn’t care.

Anyone with any common sense was safe inside his own home as soon as it got dark. The only people out and about at this hour were dangerous people looking for trouble. They deserved to die if they were going to bother decent, law-abiding people like Martin who wanted nothing but to be left alone.

He’d shoot if he had to. Don’t you doubt it.

He hadn’t heard the news lately, but he was sure there must have been hundreds if not thousands of deaths—murders, accidental deaths, and suicides—since the celebrations began. One more death in a city this size wouldn’t even be noticed. Not when the police had so many other important things to take care of … if there were any police left, that is.

Still, Martin didn’t dare to call out much less go to the door.

Instead, he walked to the far wall and, leaning his back against the closed closet door—one of the few remaining inside the house—slid slowly down into a sitting position on the floor with his shotgun poised and aimed at the front door.